“Oh, I never promised, Martin.”

“It was all one as a promise—­and now I’m to be thrown overboard.  And why?—­because Barry Lynch got dhrunk, and frightened you.  Av’ I’d seen the ruffian striking you, I think I’d ’ve been near putting it beyond him to strike another woman iver again.”

“Glory be to God that you wasn’t near him that night,” said Anty, crossing herself.  “It was bad enough, but av’ the two of you should ever be set fighting along of me, it would kill me outright.”

“But who’s talking of fighting, Anty, dear?” and Martin drew a little nearer to her—­“who’s talking of fighting?  I never wish to spake another word to Barry the longest day that ever comes.  Av’ he’ll get out of my way, I’ll go bail he’ll not find me in his.”

“But he wouldn’t get out of your way, nor get out of mine, av’ you and I got married:  he’d be in our way, and we’d be in his, and nothing could iver come of it but sorrow and misery, and maybe bloodshed.”

“Them’s all a woman’s fears.  Av’ you an I were once spliced by the priest, God bless him, Barry wouldn’t trouble Dunmore long afther.”

“That’s another rason, too.  Why should I be dhriving him out of his own house? you know he’s a right to the house, as well as I.”

“Who’s talking of dhriving him out?  Faith, he’d be welcome to stay there long enough for me!  He’d go, fast enough, without dhriving, though; you can’t say the counthry wouldn’t have a good riddhance of him.  But never mind that, Anty:  it wasn’t about Barry, one way or the other, I was thinking, when I first asked you to have me; nor it wasn’t about myself altogether, as I could let you know; though, in course, I’m not saying but that myself’s as dear to myself as another, an’ why not?  But to tell the blessed truth, I was thinking av’ you too; and that you’d be happier and asier, let alone betther an’ more respecthable, as an honest man’s wife, as I’d make you, than being mewed up there in dread of your life, never daring to open your mouth to a Christian, for fear of your own brother, who niver did, nor niver will lift a hand to sarve you, though he wasn’t backward to lift it to sthrike you, woman and sisther though you were.  Come, Anty, darlin,” he added, after a pause, during which he managed to get his arm behind her back, though he couldn’t be said to have it fairly round her waist—­“Get quit of all these quandaries, and say at once, like an honest girl, you’ll do what I’m asking—­and what no living man can hindher you from or say against it.—­Or else jist fairly say you won’t, and I’ll have done with it.”

Anty sat silent, for she didn’t like to say she wouldn’t; and she thought of her brother’s threats, and was afraid to say she would.  Martin advanced a little in his proceedings, however, and now succeeded in getting his arm round her waist—­and, having done so, he wasn’t slow in letting her feel its pressure.  She made an attempt, with her hand, to disengage herself—­certainly not a successful, and, probably, not a very energetic attempt, when the widow’s step was heard on the stairs.  Martin retreated from his position on the sofa, and Meg from hers outside the door, and Mrs Kelly entered the room, with Barry’s letter in her hand, Meg following, to ascertain the cause of the unfortunate interruption.